


They Who Made You, They Made Me Too

by infensi_floralibus



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infensi_floralibus/pseuds/infensi_floralibus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They who made you, they made me too, quiet like you, violent like you. I see you there, wild in my dreams. When you return, go to the sea.  Air is your permanent struggle to breathe. When you return, go to the sea"</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Who Made You, They Made Me Too

The Queen is dying, one look could tell you that; her skin is the colour of wax and she lies on her grand bed of state like an abandoned doll – limp, flat, and lifeless.  


The first thing you notice when you enter the room is the smell, they have been keeping the room warm, a fire constantly blazing and the windows always shuttered so as to balance her humours for the physicians say that there is too much water in her, she is drowning in her own lungs.  


They say it is easy to pity the young and beautiful but thanks to this wasting disease she appears neither, and it is harder to pity a woman who looks half way to being a corpse. I try to summon up some sense of Christian kindness but, and I know I must confess this sin to a priest, I struggle to love a woman who has always made it so clear she despised me, from the moment I arrived at court her cold eyes have weighed heavily on me and mine. I could understand her wariness, my mother and her father had been enemies to the grave, but I was shocked at her open hatred, back then when I had done nothing to earn it. I suppose that’s no longer true.  


I tread as softly as I can, my embroidered slippers making the barest whisper as I cross to her bedside; as one of her ladies in waiting it is my duty to attend to her needs, even though these days she sleeps more often than she is awake. I hope that I will find her so now but as I pull back the bed curtains her eyes flicker open, those yellowed whites and sunken orbs straining to focus.  


“Lady Elizabeth?” she croaks through chapped lips,  


“Yes, your Grace,” I reply quietly, reaching for the damp cloth that has been left by her bed so that I may wipe the perspiration from her furrowed brow. At my confirmation she sighs and turns from me, eyelids flutter shut in disappointment and I see a spasm as it passes through her chest and throat, although she is so weak it barely stirs the fine linen nightgown. “Is there anything your majesty desires me to get you?” I whisper, hoping I may be dismissed.  


“Yes...open...open the shutters...there is time enough for darkness.” Her voice is as broken as an ill-tuned lute, its pitch following no discernible rhythm.  


“The doctors have said we must keep you warm, your ma-”  


“I am dying... it shall not buy me,” here she coughs, “an hour more,” The half wasted queen turns her eyes on me and though I hesitate for a moment, I cannot deny her request, there is such a finality in her tone that I know I might be denying her final wish. Let her see the sun one last time.  


I rise from her bedside and cross to the nearest window, carefully peeling back the shutter to let sunlight into the room for the first time in nearly two weeks, although mindful to do it slowly so as not to hurt her already delicate eyes. I lift the latch and open the window a thumbs width, enough to let in a breeze but not to chill the room.  


When I turn back to her she is smiling, a sweet bright gesture that is not dimmed by the waxiness of the skin around it nor the tiredness of the eyes above. The Queen looks at the ray of pale afternoon light like one who has seen an angel, her eyes seemingly fascinated by the dancing and whirling dust that is illuminated, and for a brief moment I see the girl that once was.  


“Is there anything else I may do for you?” I ask, looking for an opportunity to leave the dying woman to her thoughts.  


But she surprises me, raising her head ever so slightly and whispering,  


“Come here.” I approach warily, aware that her eyes are following me intently, they are strangely bright as though fevered. “Take my hand,” she commands, imperious to the end. I sit slowly, arranging my skirts as I perch on her bed, avoiding touching her as long as I can, but the skeletal white fingers find mine and grip me with a strength that shocks and frightens me. “Look at me,” her words are almost a hiss and broker no argument; my eyes meet hers, and I am afraid. “The dying must confess...Elizabeth...if they are to find peace,”  


“Yes, your Grace,”  


“And so... I must confess something to you.” My stomach churns and all I wish to do it rip my hand from her cold grip and flee this room, the sins of a monarch are often the most grave and I have no desire to hear them.  


“Let me fetch you a priest, Madame,”  


“No, this is for you,...one day... one day you are going to lose something...someone... so precious to you” She pauses to breath, her weakened lungs already exhausted,  
“Your majesty, forgive me but I have already lost much-”  


“No, that is not what I speak of... I too have lost a father... a sibling... one day you shall lose so much more,” her chest is almost heaving with the effort of spitting these words out, “one day you too will lose someone so precious... it is as if the sun has been put out... and you shall feel that you will never be warm again,” I stare in horror at her, grief and disease have made her mad and I do not know what to say but stutter out,  


“Your son is waiting for you, your majesty, you will be together again in paradise.” My attempt to soothe her has a far more dramatic affect than I anticipated as her pale skin flushes and a vein protrudes from her neck,  


“Do not pretend to pity me... I am the Kingmaker’s daughter... you are a bastard!” spittle flies from her lips as she wastes her final energy spewing vicious words, draining all energy from her body so that she slumps back against the pillows exhausted. There is a long moment of silence, perfectly still until she whispers, “I know what you have done... you have committed a multitude of sins. You have stolen what is not yours... you have fornicated... and you have committed adultery...but worst of all I do not think you regret it.”  


I think my heart has stopped, the intricate veins and arteries that hold it in place have been severed for I can feel it now in the pit of my stomach, there are no words I can say, I can barely think. I had long known she’d suspected but to see it confirmed brought a pain I had no expected.  


I cannot lie, I do not feel remorse for I love Richard, and I believe that he loves me. But I am a coward, and now that I am confronted I cannot face her; like a coward I turn away, unable to meet her eyes.  


“I have heard it said... that what you put into the world...you shall receive back...threefold,” her speech is even more of a struggle now, but her grip does not slacken. “Beware, Elizabeth...fate so often turns on those she seems to favour...you are rising now on fortune’s wheel...but be ready for the day it all comes crashing down.”  


The Queen’s hand suddenly drops mine as though it burns, and she drops back onto the pillows with a great sigh, her last piece of spite delivered.  


“I should fetch a physician, your Grace, you are fevered.” I rise swiftly, lifting my skirts so that I may almost run from the room, hot tears filling my eyes. I do not know what causes them; is it shame, fear, guilt?  


I do not feel that it is fair to blame me for all the misfortune that has befallen her, but I cannot deny that I have darkened these the last days of her life. It does not seem fair to either of us that we should both love the same man, but which of us could stop?  


I reach the door before I hear it, the whimpers of an animal in pain, the quiet choking of one drowning within their own body. My hand is on the latch but I cannot help but look back, and see her curled like a child with tears streaming across her cheeks, a woman broken beyond repair.  


I cannot leave her, I cannot stay. I am stuck on the threshold, the only person who might understand and yet completely unsuitable to help. Men talk of the horrors of the battlefield, but right now I think I am witnessing something far worse.  


Finally she raises her head; her face flushed with anger and tears, and meets my gaze like the queen she was born to be. I am sure she will banish me from the room, scream for me to leave her sight but instead she does something far worse.  


“Y-you love him?” she whispers shakily, and I am so within her power that all I can do is nod. Her eyes close briefly, an instinctive reaction to sudden pain, but when they open her again her stare is steady. “Then for god’s sake... do better than I did. Make him happy.”  


I never have a chance to reply for the latch suddenly lifts and who but our Richard should stumble upon this moment of purest grief and pain. His pale eyes meet mine first, the barest nod acknowledging my presence, but when he sees his wife his attention is all hers. He crosses the room swiftly, joining her on the bed and pulling her into a seated position, allowing her to rest her tear stained face on his shoulder as he smoothes back her hair. Marriages are a private thing, and seeing them now they appear as any grieving couple, brought together in their loss – and yet there is something wrong with this picture, there are cracks in the paintwork. Richard’s lips are moving rapidly, whispering softly into the whorl of her ear, words that I don’t wish to hear.  


I drop a quick curtsey and slip through the door, thinking that even given a lifetime I don’t think I will ever understand the workings of his heart.  


Queen Anne’s words have stayed with me; the utterings of a rival that have haunted my darkest dreams for years, until one day, as I stood over a coffin draped in black velvet, I realised that grieving mothers are all on the same side, and I wondered how she knew.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to see some sort of confrontation between Anne and Elizabeth, but as I wrote this I found myself pitying them both - and finding they're not that different after all.
> 
> Lyrics are from "Fish" by Wye Oak
> 
> Criticisms as always welcomed - it's always nice to have feedback


End file.
